


nos morituri te salutamus

by impossiblewanderings



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dehumanization, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Poor Life Choices, Slavery, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:00:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rocket knows he has destruction in him. Maybe it was put there by Them, maybe it’s all him and They had nothing to do with it, but from the moment They put a blaster in his hands, he knew what his purpose was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nos morituri te salutamus

Another day on this backwater shithole of a planet, and he’s gonna go crazy. It’s one of the Xandarian Empire’s agri-planets, ninety per cent mangroves and thick black mud. There isn’t even a proper spaceport, just long steel platforms built above the muck not even big enough to hold a C-class spacer, and a series of sprawling primitive markets, most hawking poisonous mudfish and crabs. The stench of ammonia clings to his fur no matter how often he steals Quill’s shower. Rocket is ready to leave the moment they land, but Quill has his heart set on some obsolete Terran tech he’s found in the marketplace, and the proprietor of said stall, slimy bastard that he is, catches the whiff of easy units and intends to bargain, presumably until Rocket dies of old age. Drax and Gamora are no help; the former forming a sudden and inexplicable obsession with fishing, and Gamora disappearing for hours on end every day. From what he can gather, something about the planet reminds her of Zen Whoberi, but whether it’s the putrid water or the natives or the culture Rocket has no fucking idea.

Quill finally convinced him to endure the marketplace yesterday, and mercifully he found a half-decent junker in a murky little den near the landing platforms. So Rocket is currently shoulder deep in the guts of a Shi'ar pulse rifle, probing for the recoil modulator spring while attempting to avoid being electrocuted. Shi'ar weapons are notoriously sensitive, and tend to corrode like a bitch when stripped cold in the open air, even in the relatively sterile atmosphere of a ship. He's been forced to connect it to the _Milano_ 's system, and let the rifle charge until it fizzes with blue and white sparks. _Sentient_ , the junker had claimed, rolling the whites of his multiple eyeballs at the gun even as he attempted to bleed Rocket for twenty thousand units, no doubt to fund his own escape from this refuse heap of a planet. Rocket has no patience for that deep-space-pirate superstitious shit, but he stays cautious, whipping his claws out when the sparks crowd too close for comfort. It's only the recoil and firing mechanism he's interested in, a real shame because Shi'ar tech is a thing of beauty and highly illegal in three quadrants to boot, but the barrel is too long and unwieldy for his grip, and pulse weapons have a nasty tendency to overheat and engulf whoever happens to be holding them in fire and shrapnel.

“ _’m Groo’!’_

Rocket flinches and shocks himself. He glances at the rec table behind him from the corner of his eye, shaking the life back into his numb paw. The sapling is swaying and moving its tiny leaves, but doesn’t seem to be interested in him specifically, so he turns back to his work. But he can’t focus now, of course, now he’s listening for movement, for that little piping voice to break the silence again, to hear _something_ in the tone or emphasis of those words that means-

“ _Groo’!_ ”

“Hey, buddy!”

Rocket shocks himself again, this time both paws at once, as Peter strides into the common area, grinning fondly at the sapling wriggling in his pot. Rocket crams the stinging digits into his mouth and glares at the Terran as he throws his coat onto the table, barely breaking stride as he heads for the sound system and his precious music.

“Hey, Rocket,” Peter tosses over his shoulder as an afterthought, messing with his tapes to select which playlist Rocket will have to endure for the next two hours while Quill gets the dance moves out of his system. Peter seems to consider a day without dancing completely wasted, and to find that the sapling does too has been the highlight of the last two cycles. Rocket endures it, and grinds his teeth, but the music distracts him and echoes in his head, an irritating whine that builds and builds until he can’t take it anymore and leaves before he blasts Quill’s head clean off his shoulders.

“You feel like dancing, buddy?” Quill asks, already swinging his hips to the beat as the tape rasps into life.

The sapling waves its limbs around and squeaks joyously at the Terran.

“ _Oh yeah_ ,” Peter crows, clapping his hands, and the two start happily flailing to the song, while Rocket fumes in his corner.

“Quill,” he calls, and then, when there’s no response, “Hey, _asshole_!”

“What?”

“You closed that deal yet?”

Peter spins in circles, his boots squeaking on the floor, head thrown back and grinning like the idiot he is.

“Um, what – oh, no, he wants forty thousand for it, and I’m saying ten so … we got a ways to go yet.”

“Forty _grand_? For a piece of shit Terran image projector?”

Peter stops spinning and frowns at him.

“Dude, it’s a video player! But like, more pimped out than that, they’ve really come along with tech since I left. When we get back in range of Sol, I’ll be able to watch _movies_ again!”

“Well, that’s fuckin’ _fascinating_ news, Quill, but some of us don’t want to spend the rest of their lives on this mudball waiting for you to get your hands on some piece of shitty Terran tech that probably doesn’t work anyway!”

Peter lowers his arms and stops dancing, wrinkling his nose at Rocket like he smells something bad.

“Jeez, what crawled up your ass and died? You’ve been pissy all week.”

Rocket turns his attention back to the gun, idly shredding the wires that trail out of the panel on the side of the _Milano_.

“This planet _sucks,_ that’s my problem.”

“ _’m Groo_ …’”

Peter rounds the table, each footstep raising Rocket’s hackles an inch higher, and his shadow spills over his work, swimming like oil in the open innards of the rifle.

“Damn, is that a Shi’ar pulser? That shit is _so_ illegal. And unstable. You’re gonna blow another hole in my ship if you’re not careful.”

“Fuck off,” Rocket snaps. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Never said you didn’t, buddy, just an observation.”

“ _Groo’! ‘m Groo’!”_

Rocket bares his teeth, and tugs at a wire harder than he needs to. It snaps and sparks over the floor, and Peter’s shadow leaps to one side with a curse to avoid it. He hopes that’s the end of it, that Peter will go back to Groo- to the sapling and start dancing again, but instead there’s the telltale squeak of him dropping into the worn second-hand pilot’s chair that he reserves as his seat for meals, and letting out a long, put-upon sigh.

“Look, Rocket, risking you blowing my head off for asking, is there a _problem_ that I can assist you with?”

Peter’s tone is sickly-sweet, mocking, and unfamiliar enough for Rocket to pause and rock back on his heels.

“What?”

“Because since Xander, you have been, and there’s no easy way to say this, _a fucking misery_ to be around, and I’m just not seeing a _reason_.”

Rocket bristles, and whirls around to face him. Peter is peering at him politely, his fingertips together like some damn Nova Corps delegate, his mouth twisted into a Ravager smirk.

“I mean, sure it hasn’t been that exciting these past months, nothing like saving a whole damn planet or breaking out of a max security prison, but we’re all getting pretty sick of your sulking.”

“ _Groo’?_ ”

“My _what_? My fucking _sulking_?”

“Yeah, your sulking. You never take a turn on watch, you don’t come with us to see any planets, you need to pull your head out of your ass and start being a part of this team.”

“What team?” Rocket snarls bitterly. “Your precious fucking _Guardians_?”

“Look, I’ve tried being nice. I’m not good at being nice, it doesn’t come easily to me. But I have been a literal ray of sunshine, and you’re bringing us down like some … some toxic sludge cloud of doom, okay? I mean, you barely even _look_ at Groot anymore, I thought he was your friend!”

Part of Rocket knows this is an overreaction, but it’s all escalating too fast, and before he even thinks he has the pulse rifle in his hands, still cracked open and dribbling wisps of lightning from its overcharged belly, and has it pointed directly at Quill’s face.

“ _Don’t you fuckin’ talk about him!_ ”

Peter leans back in his chair, confusion flitting over his face before the anger returns.

“Why? Why not, Rocket, huh? What the hell is your problem?”

Gamora enters the room behind Quill. Her eyes dart over Rocket and the gun, and her gaze narrows slightly. Her hand drops to the hilt of the blade at her hip.

“What is going on? Peter?”

“Rocket’s being a jackass, as usual.”

His stomach hurts. It aches, and the hot metal of the gun is burning and singeing his fur, and over it all that damned _music_ just keeps howling on and on. Rocket snarls, deep in his throat, and curls one claw around the trigger.

“Shut up, Quill.”

“Rocket, put the gun down,” Gamora orders, striding further into the room.

“ _No._ ”

Peter glares at him, all trace of concern gone from his face and voice.

“You are such an _asshole_ , Rocket.”

“Peter, you’re not helping. Put it down!”

“ _No!_ ”

“ROCKET!”

“ _Groo’!_ ”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Rocket howls, shredding his voice, drowning in a surge of pure _hate_ that shakes his entire body, and he fires. The gun jolts out of his hands, spewing flame and parts, and the room disappears in choking plumes of smoke.

For one horrifying instant, he thinks he killed Groot, murdered him for the second time, but the sapling is still there on the table, black eyes wide, limbs twitching in terror. It’s Peter’s precious music system that has suffered a direct hit. The tape is nothing more than melted plastic. The ship rings with silence.

Then Peter pushes himself to his feet, steadied by Gamora as he slips on the debris. She has a cut high on her cheekbone, under her left eye from shrapnel. If her reflexes weren’t so fast, that could have been her throat. And Peter’s music - Rocket feels sick.

He has to say something. He has to fix this – it just happened so fast, and he wasn’t – he didn’t mean to-

“Quill,” he begins, but Peter just laughs, a breathless chuckle devoid of humour, and looks at him dead in the eye.

“I give up. I give up, I just - get off my ship, you worthless, stupid _vermin_. Just go.”

Rocket glances at Gamora, but she could be carved from jade, silent and disapproving.

He uncurls his claws from where they cut into his palms, and stumbles forward. His movements are jerky, like his joints are full of glue, but he makes it into the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest. He can’t think properly, his thoughts are all disjointed, slipping as he tries to think logically, tries to –

“Hah! Good evening, small rodent. Behold the mighty mudfish I have caught with my fishermen companions. Tonight we shall feast!”

Drax beams at him, holding a fish that is easily half his size and nearly as wide. Its mouth still flaps uselessly, and rancid water drips onto the floor.

Rocket blinks, tries to work his tongue in his dry mouth to form words.

“Drax, I – get out of the way.”

“What ails you, my small friend?”

Rage is building in him again already, a red wave of desolation and fury crashing behind his eyes.

“Drax, get the fuck out of my way before I kill you.”

“Ah,” the big warrior says, and then pauses, furrowing his brow. “Metaphor?”

“No, you big dumb bastard,” Rocket snarls. “ _Not_ a fucking metaphor.”

He slips between Drax’s legs and slams the panel for the loading ramp with a closed fist. It lowers slowly, letting in a blast of wind studded with icy rain, the kind that blows right in your eyes. Rocket squints into the darkness and strides down the ramp to the muddy earth.

Rocket knows he has destruction in him. Maybe it was put there by Them, maybe it’s all him and They had nothing to do with it, but from the moment They put a blaster in his hands, he knew what his purpose was. He was made to kill, to destroy and dismantle and disrupt, and by all the gods, it can’t be denied that he does it well. Rocket has never left a place without destroying it. He always leaves a trail of fire and bodies and destruction in his wake, and now is no different. He always burns his bridges, because it’s easier that way. It was different for a while, when Groot- but that’s all over now. The others know what he is. Nothing could be hidden in the agonizing light of the Stone.

So he keeps his spine straight, though it makes his implants ache. He sets his jaw and stalks off into the piss-scented miserable fuckin’ night, and he doesn’t look back.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This movie has stolen my soul. Three viewings, two shirts and a soundtrack later, I am ready to fic the hell out of it.


End file.
